


These Thirteen Days

by Barrowight



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Light Angst, everyone is cheerful for the most part, minor changes to canon, not much tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-25
Updated: 2013-09-21
Packaged: 2017-12-21 03:54:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/895487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barrowight/pseuds/Barrowight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Frodo and Sam lie unconscious after their journey to Orodruin, the remaining members of the Fellowship encounter despair, conflict and unexpected mirth as they watch over their sleeping friends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Half a Yes

**Author's Note:**

> This fic takes place right after Frodo and Sam are brought out of Mordor. I stuck to book canon, except with Merry and Pippin, because I wanted them to both be present and conscious for the entirety of the story. So no being crushed by a troll, and no riding out from Minas Tirith after the fact, unfortunately. Chalk it up to my excessive fondness for hobbits.  
> Also, if you see any inaccuracies - medical, astronomical, or otherwise - please let me know! I’m no expert and I got pretty much all of this stuff out of the Internet or my own unenlightened brain. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated.
> 
> Location descriptions and timeline taken from _The Return of the King_ , book 6, ch. iv "The Field of Cormallen".

**March 26, 3019.** Dawn was breaking on the Field of Cormallen. Pippin awoke with a start, thinking he had been summoned for duty (he usually had it in the afternoons, though in the early morning that was not easily remembered). The War had ended yesterday, and the Dark Tower had been thrown down. Soon he would be saying his good-byes to Aragorn and Beregond and all the Big Folk of the City, and going home with his friends.

_His friends._ Pippin blinked and opened his eyes fully. Yesterday he had seen the Eagle swooping down with its precious cargo, but it had been only a mere glimpse, and then the healers had told him to rest. He had suffered a few hurts in the battle, none grievous, but supposedly they needed tending for several hours. Well, his cuts and bruises were not his concern. It was morning now, and he was going to see Frodo no matter who stood in his way.

“Master Perian,” stammered a healer as Pippin dressed and made ready to depart the sick-tent, “I was told that you were to remain here all day.”

“You were told wrong,” Pippin replied as he marched out. His spare shirt was wrinkled and missing a button, and his trousers were a tad too large after all he had been through, but he hardly noticed. Already he could see the large yellow tent where he had seen the Eagle land; it was near the beech trees at the edge of the camp, draped in sweet fragrances and swaying sunbeams. Merry was standing near the entrance, fidgeting with worry. Pippin saw that, though on the outside there did not seem to be much wrong with him, his face was grey, and he was gripping his right arm which hung limply from his shoulder.

“Hullo, Merry!” Pippin said, trying valiantly to sound light-hearted. “You’re not looking bad, considering how you were last afternoon.”

Merry waved his hand dismissively, but he looked distracted. “Strider and Gandalf are in there right now. We can look once they’re finished.”

They did not have to wait long. Soon Gandalf came out of the tent, seeming older and wearier than he had just the day before. “So you are determined to see them?” he asked.

Pippin and Merry nodded.

“Then you must be ready,” he said in a low voice. “Your friends are not as they were when you saw them last on the banks of the Anduin. Much changes in these dark days, and none have seen darker than these two. Now come in, and for heavens’ sake, stay quiet!” He lifted the flap and led them inside. No candle had been lit, and seconds passed before Pippin could see what lay before him on the two small beds.

His old companions were barely recognisable, so blackened their faces were by the Mountain’s labors. The healers had tried to clean their bodies, but with little success, for they were loath to touch the many dark wounds on their cracked skin. Everywhere Pippin looked he could see wounds aplenty. Frodo especially had suffered: his neck was scarlet, rubbed raw by the weight of his burden; his shoulder was marked by strange gashes, of tooth or claw perhaps; and the third finger on his left hand had been cruelly bitten off at the knuckle. Worst of all to Pippin was how thin Frodo and Sam had become. It was plain to him that they had not drunk nor eaten for many days. Recalling Sam’s stout brown arms as he worked in the Bag End garden and Frodo’s rueful comments on his expanding waistline, Pippin felt a surge of horror and grief overcome him. There seemed little hope that they would survive.

Only minutes he had spent there, but that was long enough. He turned to leave, and saw a pile of battered objects lying forlornly in the corner. Quietly he picked them up and carried them out into the light, with Merry close behind.

“Are those - ” Merry asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.

Carefully Pippin set the pile down. On top were the remains of Sam’s pack. Large and coarse it was still, but torn in many places, and missing a strap. Pippin reached in and felt the shapes of many different things that Sam and Frodo had carried, haphazardly thrown inside by their rescuers amid the chaos of yesterday’s triumph. First was a small box of grey wood, plain but for a G-rune on the lid. It was near spotless, and had obviously not been handled much. Pippin thought it familiar. “Oh! It’s the Lady’s gift to Sam!” he said suddenly.

“Better not mess with it, then,” advised Merry, setting it aside. Next came a single dry drooping water-bottle, and a cake of _lembas_ , jostled and fractured. Underneath was Sting, still within its sheath. “So Frodo didn’t lose it after all!” exclaimed Pippin, delighted. “And we’ve got his silver coat from Bilbo, too. What luck! He’ll be glad to see it back.”

“ _If_ he ever wakes up, that is,” said Merry gloomily. Their spirits sank low once more.

Tangled around the little sword were two sets of clothing, tattered and soot-covered, the very same that their friends had worn when they set out from home. The hobbits found little to say, struck with emotion as they were, and laid the torn outfits aside. Lastly they uncovered the elven-rope of Lórien and, at the very bottom, the Phial of Galadriel. As Pippin wiped away the grime, he saw the clear light beginning to well faintly through his fingers, visible even under the bright sun. He set it reverently down on the grass beside Sam’s box.

At that moment Gandalf emerged again. “I see you have found their belongings,” he said. Merry ignored the statement, or perhaps he had not even heard it. “Gandalf? Are Frodo and Sam going to get well?”

Gandalf sighed. “Nothing is certain. Already they were close to death when they were brought out of the fire, and their bodies refuse all nourishment. You have seen how frail they are now.”

Pippin bowed his head, crushed by the news. Then Gandalf placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Do not lose all hope! There is time yet. The Shadow has departed, and hope unlooked-for grows anew. The hands of a King have power even with ailments such as these.”

“But Strider must be tired, and there are other people here who need his help,” objected Merry.

“Many healers will be arriving from Minas Tirith soon,” said Gandalf. “They have skill in these matters. Go now! There is nothing that you kindly souls can do for them or for anyone else. The morning is growing old, and I have never seen a hobbit miss a meal when he can get one.”

 

Afternoon came. Pippin and several other men were sent out on patrol, for there was fear that their foes might still lurk among the fair trees of Ithilien, waiting to strike when they would be least expected. Pippin spent the time running his hand nervously over his sword-hilt, but he need not have worried. The patrol encountered no Orcs or Easterlings, only twinkling streams and hilly glades among the verdant groves of trees that were not native to the Shire. But the marks of the Shadow were still visible; scars and filth marked the forest not far from the road. Cautiously poking through the undergrowth, Pippin stumbled across a pile of charred bones, not even a month dead, half hidden by a clump of briar. Evidently they had been Gondorian soldiers: few others had dared to venture under the shadow of the Ephel Dúath during the War.

Once he returned to camp, Pippin changed out of his uniform, ate supper, and promptly made for the yellow tent. “Gandalf?” he whispered as he came in. “Is there anything new?”

“Gandalf is taking his rest now,” said Aragorn looking up from Frodo’s bedside. “Little has changed. All of Sam’s major wounds have been found and bandaged, and nearly all of Frodo’s, but their breath is shallow, and still I can coax no water down their throats.” Pippin looked at his friends; the dust and dirt on their skin had been wiped away, and now the paleness of their faces became ever more apparent. As he watched he could see their chests rising and falling slightly, but it was faint and difficult to notice even with his sharp eyes.

“Have - have you gotten any sleep, Strider?”

Aragorn smiled wanly. “A little, ere suppertime, but as long as my charges linger on the threshold of death, I too shall lie uneasy.” He turned back to Frodo and took no further notice of Pippin. Unsure what to do or say, Pippin sat on the floor beside him, underneath Frodo’s burnt and reddened feet, lost in his own thoughts. He watched Aragorn wipe away a puddle of blood on Frodo’s forearm and wrap a linen cloth around it. Then he inspected the stump where the missing finger had been. Pippin quickly turned, unwilling to see the stomach-turning wound.

At that moment Merry came in. “Have they gotten better?” he asked.

Pippin shrugged sadly. “That’s what I asked earlier, and the answer’s no.”

Merry’s face fell. Then Aragorn stood and took a water-skin from the table. “Though perhaps it may be yes, if this goes well. Come, Merry. Hold Frodo’s jaw down. Be gentle; there are no cuts there, but his skin is fragile.”

Merry did as he was told, looking apprehensive. Frodo’s mouth opened slightly. The inside was withered and desiccated, to Pippin’s dismay, and his tongue was swollen beyond belief. Aragorn tipped the bottle forward and squeezed gently; a few drops of water trickled down. A moment later they came back out, accompanied by involuntary retching. Pippin was splattered and he stumbled backward, missing a tentpole by a few inches. “Careful, Pip,” Merry called, failing to hold back a small chuckle. Aragorn wisely refrained from commenting.

Next came Sam. “Pippin, you can do it this time,” Aragorn said. Pippin touched Sam’s chin and flinched. It seemed almost reptilian in its roughness, and dry like the pages of an ancient book. With as much delicacy as he could muster he pried Sam’s jaw open and pushed it downwards as Aragorn poured more water-drops into his mouth. For long seconds they waited with bated breath. Sam’s body heaved, and some of the water came back up. Some of it did not. He could swallow, at the very least.

Pippin let out a sigh of relief. “Merry, I think the answer’s yes. Or half a yes, anyway.”


	2. Wounds Aplenty

**March 27.** Gimli had been lying abed for a day and a half. He had suffered injury to his shoulder at the battle, but the throbbing pain there was little compared to the one in his heart. The healers had taken him in before ever he had had a chance to see the little hobbits brought from the Mountain. But today they had told him he was free to walk about, so long as he did not strain himself. _And not a moment too soon_ , Gimli thought as he stalked through the camp, looking about for the large yellow tent he had been told to find.

A curly bundle appeared next to him. “Good morning, Gimli!” said Pippin cheerily. “Enjoying the sunshine?”

It was certainly very bright and warm, but Gimli had given no attention to that. “Have you seen Frodo and Sam? Where are they being kept?” he asked urgently.

Pippin bit his lip, seeming to deflate. “Over this way,” he said, talking as he guided Gimli through the maze of tents. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen you or Legolas yesterday. I spent a great deal of time there, when I wasn’t on duty, of course.”

“I cannot speak for the elf, but as for myself, I had wounds that needed tending,” replied Gimli, stroking his beard. It was a little scraggly, but nothing worth fussing over. Here there were no other dwarves to judge it. “Well? Have they woken?”

“I’m afraid not,” answered Pippin somberly, “but at the least Sam swallowed a bit of water yesterday. We are all hoping for the best.”

Gimli frowned, trying to clamp down on the sudden panic he felt. “Then it will be many days yet before they arise.” _If they arise._ He left the second part unspoken, but he knew it was there in both their minds.

The two of them did not speak for a few minutes, until they caught sight of the yellow tent. “Here we are!” Pippin announced, attempting to recover his usual high spirits. “I think Strider is sleeping now, but Gandalf ought to be inside. Now, I must be getting off. I promised to meet Merry by the stream, but in seeing you I’d clean forgotten. Tell me if they are getting better!” With that he was gone, running back through the throngs of men and horses and cook-fires.

Gimli stared after him for a moment, unable to quite keep up with the pace of his young friend’s speech. Shaking his head, he entered the tent. Indeed, Tharkûn was within, looking gravely upon the small beds. The two hobbits lay there, thin and pale, still but for the occasional breath. They had taken appalling hurts in many places, but Gimli’s eyes were drawn to Frodo’s left hand, bereft of a finger. How that had happened he could not know for sure, but after hearing that the treacherous Gollum had been guiding them, it was not difficult to guess.

“Mahal’s beard,” murmured Gimli, taken aback. Since Parth Galen he had seen nothing of the Ring-bearer and his servant, and had been free to imagine every sort of awful image in the black place between dreaming and wakefulness, but somehow this was far worse. Gimli grasped for words that could convey his feeling, and came up empty. “Pippin tells me Sam has managed a few sips of water,” he said finally.

“Yes, it is true. Aragorn was able to give him more a few hours ago, before he retired to his tent. I think he will recover, if fate is with us.”

“And Frodo?”

“Nothing yet.” Tharkûn’s eyes chanced upon Frodo’s face. The hobbit’s cheeks were jaundiced and hollow, and his eyes were sunken deep into his head. “Should Frodo succumb, Sam will no longer wish to live even if he awakes.”

Gimli could not begin to fathom that sort of loyalty. He and Legolas had become good friends, but there were many journeys ahead before they reached a bond like that, if ever they did. “I would not wish to be in his place, if that does come to pass.” It was a painfully obvious statement, but one that he felt needed to be said.

“Nor would I, Master Dwarf.”

 

After leaving, Gimli went in search of Legolas. He found him walking about in the woods, as usual for an elf, he supposed. “You must be the loudest dwarf in Erebor,” Legolas laughed as Gimli approached. “Your footfalls in the soft soil are like a cave-troll on the march.”

“To an elf maybe,” Gimli said. “Long ears make for long hearing, as my people say. And a long supply of arrogance, as they might well have added.”

Legolas pretended to look affronted. “I will let that grievous insult pass, for now. Come, walk with me!”

They wandered among the trees, and even Gimli was forced to admit that Ithilien was a fine place. “To be so near the Black Land and still retain great virtue, this forest must be mighty indeed.”

Legolas looked eastward, where the Ephel Dúath towered over them, and his face was troubled. “They do not fare well, the hobbits. I have visited them.”

Gimli sighed. “As did I, before coming here. Not in many years have I seen wounds so numerous and so deep.”

They sat down in a patch of sun, mottled by the drifting fronds of a larch-tree above them, and spoke together of the two brave little wanderers. Then Legolas quieted their fretful thoughts. “All this is of no use. They will heal, or they will not, and no words will change that. Aragorn will find a way, if there is one. Let us talk of lighter things now!”

So they did, and the morning passed. Gimli’s stomach rumbled with typical dwarf belligerence, and he recalled that he had not eaten breakfast, so eager he had been to see Frodo. When his hunger became too much to bear, he returned to camp and ate with Legolas. Merry and Pippin joined them after a quarter hour and began on a meal themselves. Gimli strongly suspected that this was only the latest of several.

Legolas touched Merry’s right hand. “You seem stiff,” he said. “Is it mending properly?”

Merry blushed and hastily drew it away, but the movement seemed slower than usual. Gimli grabbed it and held it up. It did appear a little grey, and the fingers hung down limply. “You ought to have Aragorn look that over, laddie,” he grunted.

“I’m not a laddie!” Merry protested indignantly. “And anyway, Strider’s already so busy, with Frodo and Sam and all. I wouldn’t want to lay more troubles on him.”

“It’s more trouble for you than him, Merry,” said Pippin. “I’ve seen you flailing around when you thought I wasn’t looking. Why, you can’t even button your shirt right!”

“It’s not that bad,” Merry muttered stubbornly.

“Show us, then!”

Merry lifted his hand and waggled each finger sluggishly. His face was scrunched up in concentration, and when at last he let the hand drop, he seemed relieved.

“All right, all right,” he grumbled. “It’s bad. I’ll talk to Strider tomorrow, but I won’t have much time. I’ve got to ride off to Cair Andros in the afternoon.”

“Do not delay,” Gimli insisted. “We have two bedridden hobbits on our minds already, and three would be far too much, eh, Legolas?”

The elf nodded sagely, suppressing a grin.

“But if Pippin keeps tripping over his own feet, you might get that sooner than you wish,” Merry said, and was promptly punched in the side.

 

Although Gimli wished to see Sam and Frodo again, he had to turn in early. His shoulder was paining him. Legolas came and kept him company for a while, but after an hour or so he left, saying that the dwarf needed to keep up his strength.

“That is easy for you to say,” Gimli said. “After all, you are perfectly healthy.”

“So it is,” laughed Legolas, turning around just as he was about to depart, “but you would do well to heed the advice of one who has lived for centuries uncounted with hardly a scrape to speak of.”

“There was that one time in Mirkwood - ”

“Don’t you dare!” interrupted Legolas before making a hasty exit. “I think it must be the medicine,” Gimli could hear him saying loudly to all who stood within earshot.

Gimli snorted and lay back contentedly. He slept for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Mahal_ is the Khuzdul (Dwarvish) name for Aulë, the Vala (sort of like a deity) who created them. - ROTK appendices
> 
>  _Tharkûn_ is the Khuzdul name for Gandalf. - TTT


	3. Rain on the Hills

**March 28.** The neighing of horses woke Merry, and he stumbled groggily out of bed. “What is the time?” he mumbled. It took him several seconds to comprehend that he was alone in his small tent. He poked his head outside, and found that the sun had not yet risen. The camp was, for the most part, quiet. There were still hours and hours to go before he had to leave.

Certainly there was no hope of falling asleep again. Merry clumsily dressed himself, hampered by his listless right hand, and went out. The skies were clouded today, and it was possible that there would be some rain to mar the usually glorious weather. That would make riding to Cair Andros, as he had been told to do, rather more difficult. Already the grass under his feet was wet with morning dew.

Merry found himself walking in the direction of the yellow tent, almost without thinking. His hand hung limply at his side, and it felt numb. Maybe it was his gloomy spirits that were causing it, he thought. He had done his best to be jovial yesterday with all his friends about him, but today the damp air seemed to quell even the pretense of high hopes. Absently Merry scratched the scar on his forehead, and then remembered that he was not supposed to do that. He sighed and kept walking. Hardly anyone was up and about, and the few who were paid him no heed.

When he got to the tent, Aragorn was inside. His face was more worn and exhausted than Merry’s, if that were possible. “You have risen early, I see,” Aragorn commented. “Are you on some errand?”

“No, nothing until later,” said Merry, stifling a yawn. “King Éomer has told me to deliver some messages and goods to Cair Andros this evening. But I don’t know why I’m in such great demand. The Men’s great horses are a great deal faster than little Stybba, and they can bear more weight.”

“Perhaps he thinks you need distraction from poor Frodo and Sam,” said Aragorn, looking on their faces with concern. Sam’s body was now easily able to accept steady amounts of nourishing soup, but Frodo could still only take bare drops at a time. Merry saw his waxen face and quailed. “What if - what if he dies?” he asked, only realising afterwards that he had spoken aloud.

Aragorn did not reply in word, but in his clear grey eyes lay emotion that threatened to overflow. Merry had never thought he would see a sturdy warrior of the Big Folk, much less a famous war-captain and the King of all the West, weep; yet there Aragorn was. The feeling in his hand dimmed and grew weak. He felt old suddenly, and feeble.

“Strider?” he said reluctantly, remembering his promise. “My hand is bothering me again.”

At once Aragorn leaped up and scrutinized it. “Can you move it still?”

“A little. It seems to be getting worse.”

Aragorn rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “There is store of _athelas_ here, but it will not help you much now. For now it is imperative that you do not despair; above all that is the way of the Nazgûl, to strike hopelessness into men’s hearts. Keep your head up, Merry, and take a smoke if you can. That should help you along.” He patted Merry’s shoulder and returned to his work.

Merry lingered for a few minutes. He was nearest to Sam, and it was heartening to see how far he had come in the space of two days. He was still sickly and parched, and his tongue remained unnaturally swollen, but gently touching his hand, Merry found it softer and not nearly as dry as it had been.

Frodo was far from health, if ever he would find it. The only bit of good fortune was that his finger-stump was mending nicely. Merry touched his own cold hand. Compared to Frodo, he was well off, even if the numbness lingered for the rest of his life. His mood plunged low again at that thought. _Stop thinking like that_ , he admonished himself. _The air is getting to you._ He left and filled his pipe and sat cross-legged by the stream. Soon Pippin came and joined him.

“Have you got any more of that? I’d like to smoke myself.”

Merry put a protective hand around the little pouch of leaf. “I’m sure you have your own, if you weren’t too lazy to go looking for it. How do you always know where I am, anyway?”

Pippin shrugged and smiled. “I thought you’d be here. Back in the Shire you always liked hanging about the riverside when you were trying to relax. Not that it worked, but you don’t seem to have broken the habit.”

“No, I haven’t,” Merry admitted, dipping his toes into the cool water. “This little creek does calm me - either that, or the pipe-weed. But the Brandywine was something special. It was part of home.” He felt a pang of longing. “I hope everything’s still all right there,” he said quietly. “My mum is getting old, and it would be nice to say hello to her after all this time. And I’d like to see Estella, too. She’ll be coming of age next year.”

“Don’t worry too much,” said Pippin reassuringly. “It’s been less than a year since we left, and the Shire changes slowly, if it changes at all.”

Merry blew out a large grey smoke-ring. “I have to worry,” he said. “They already think we’re dead. If we come back and - and Frodo and Sam aren’t with us, it’ll break their hearts. We’d have to tell Bilbo…”

At that Pippin winced a little. “It’d be hard,” he acknowledged, “but we’re hobbits. We can get through anything, can’t we?”

They looked out over the green meadow to Anduin’s wide waters in the distance. The dreary clouds were before them, moving quickly eastward over the sky. It was a rather cheerless scene. Even the camp’s turmoil seemed muted. The unseen sun was rising to mid-morning, and both hobbits were getting hungry. Pippin waved away the clouds of smoke and stood up. “I’m sure everything is fine over there. We’re here for now, and we will be for quite some time, so we might as well make the most of it. Now, let’s go eat.”

 

Merry looked at Frodo and Sam again later (nothing much had improved), and then went to Stybba as the sun fell to evening. His pony’s coat was glossy and well-tended, and the small cuts he had received at the Morannon were gone. “Some exercise will do you some good, I think,” Merry told him. “You’re beginning to put on some weight.” Stybba nickered and swished his tail, looking rather insulted. He stood proudly upright when Merry loaded on his saddle and the packages that needed delivering, and took Merry’s own weight easily.

Mere minutes after they set off, the rain began. At first it was only lightly, but then the water came down in huge wet sheets, dousing Merry, Stybba, and the saddlebags. Merry could only hope that the parchment within was undamaged. Cair Andros was certainly not far, only miles away, but he was forced to slow to a trot as the downpour grew in strength. “I’m no good with ponies,” he muttered irritably as he jerked the reins this way and that, trying to guide Stybba in the rising winds. “Éomer ought to have picked one of his tall Riders for this job, not someone like me.” Often he lost control and skidded down the slick grassy slopes. His right hand was slow, which only made matters worse.

Merry squinted ahead and was able to make out the dim, shifting silhouette of Cair Andros not far off to the southwest. “Come on, Stybba,” he shouted over the tumult. “It’s only a little while away. We can make it!” The stout-hearted little pony whinnied and continued with renewed vigor. Raindrops melted off their backs as they rushed headlong into the gale. At last they reached the banks of the Anduin, where a small boat awaited to take them across.

The fortress was warm and lit with many blazing fires. Merry became aware that he was shivering, and dripping water all over the stonework, as he was led through the cavernous halls. He tried to wring out his curls, but they remained firmly plastered to his forehead. The commander, when Merry finally reached him, did not seem to mind.

“Welcome! Good evening! You must be fair weary after that ride,” the commander bellowed in a booming voice. He was younger than most of the men whom Merry had come across in his travels, and punctuated each sentence with a heavy dose of vigor. “My name is Iorlas! I command the garrison here. We were told to expect an urgent message from King Éomer today, but after the rain began I thought he would wait until the morrow. A strapping lad you must be to dare that journey!”

Merry coughed politely, unable to stay silent. “Thank you very much, my lord, but I am thirty-five years old and not quite a lad anymore, in the reckoning of my people.”

“Well! Then you must be one of the halflings I have heard so much about!” cried Iorlas, looking, if possible, more energetic than he had previously. “Say, are you acquainted with the other _perian_ that was in Minas Tirith of late? He is a guardsman of the Citadel, I hear, and a prince of his people.”

Merry resisted the urge to burst out laughing. There was only one halfling he could be speaking of. “Do - do you mean Pippin? Er, I mean, yes, I know him. We are very good friends.”

Iorlas raised his thick eyebrows so high that they disappeared behind his dark locks. “I find that most exciting! Now, let us see those messages!”

Reaching into the soaked saddlebag, Merry retrieved several small bundles and rolled-up documents. To his relief, they were almost entirely dry. Iorlas eagerly accepted the packages and looked over their contents. “Wonderful! Tell the king I will provide what is needed as soon as I am able.” He paused. “But I cannot send you back into the rain! I see you are quivering, little master. Stay here by the fire a little longer, if you desire.”

Merry dearly wished to stay there and warm himself, but Éomer had told him to hurry back as soon as he could. “I am sorry to burden you so, but this task is of great importance,” the King had said. “Rest assured that you will have my thanks for the deed.”

“I cannot, lord,” Merry said now to Iorlas, inclining his head. “I must be on my way now, but thank you for your hospitality.”

“If you say so, lad! Oh, I have quite forgotten my manners. You must be as old as I am, if not older! Fare well!”

 

The boatman rowed Merry and Stybba back to the east bank. “The skies be getting dark, small one, and the rain falls harder,” he warned them. “Be wary!” Merry was as wary as he could, but the storm had grown worse. He and Stybba were traveling with the wind now, which was some help, but the ground was slippery and treacherous, and a fall here would be ill luck. Again Merry wished that some gallant Man had been sent out instead, but it was too late now. Éomer was waiting for him, and wishes would do him no good. “Just a little further,” he said through gritted teeth, stroking Stybba’s dark wet mane; his voice was barely audible even to his own ears in the wind. “No time for rest, I’m afraid.” The pony’s muscles churned under him as they struggled upward. Finally they reached the summit.

The camp was nowhere to be found.

“Oh, no,” groaned Merry, inadvertently taking in a mouthful of rainwater. He turned this way and that, looking for some clue. Cair Andros was off to the west, a great dark mass blurred by shadows. This hill was unfamiliar. Somehow Merry had ended up too far south. He ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Well, Stybba, there’s nothing for it,” he said. His teeth were chattering. “We have to keep going.”

Merry felt dazed, and cold permeated his body, most of all in his injured limb. By his judgment the camp was nearer than the fortress, and would take less effort to reach, but if he was wrong, then both of them would suffer. Stybba was stumbling slightly. Merry did not think he would be able to go much longer in this weather.

He set off at an unhurried trot, not wishing to hurt the poor pony any more. Down the hill they went, and then came the next one. It was much less steep, but a river of sludge was rolling down its sides. Stybba tossed his head and plodded forward, head down. The rain was so heavy that Merry could not see much of anything, and the gusts battered him to and fro, so that often he was nearly knocked from Stybba’s back. The only constant was the mud beneath and the water above. He was surrounded by bleak nothingness. A slow chill spread through him, and a feeling of endless dread, and at the very bottom a tiny kernel of grim irony. Here he was toiling through freezing rain and wind, hungry and tired, and just days ago dear old Frodo had been doing the exact same thing not far away, but he had been drenched in smoke and fire for days on end. And yet compared to that journey, this was more like a leisurely spring stroll.

Hours later it seemed, though in truth it was only minutes, a spot of light floated into Merry’s sight, shattering the infinite grey. The light came closer. It was a man holding a lantern. “Who’s there?”

Merry wanted to shout for joy, but instead only a muffled croak came out. “Meriadoc, esquire of King Éomer, sir, returned from Cair Andros.”

The man held up the lamp. “I will lead you to his quarters. You need warmth, Master Holbytla, and sorely, I deem.”

 

“…and Iorlas said he would provide what was needed as soon as possible,” Merry finished, wiping his nose disconsolately.

Éomer nodded and made some notes on his map. “You have great courage to dare the storm with only your pony,” he said. “I thought you would choose to remain within the fortress until the rain ceased. It seems I underestimated your strength, and it was well that I did, for now I have answers that the Lord Aragorn and I sought greatly.”

Merry bowed unsteadily and made to leave, but Éomer stopped him. “Rest here a while, I beg! I would not have venture out again now. Healers will come and attend to you.”

Soon Merry was rolled up in thick blankets and positioned by the fire. In other circumstances he would have protested vehemently, but he was dizzy and the world around him tilted and spun and at last faded to blackness. “Tell Frodo he can have some of my leaf,” he said thickly to no one in particular, or perhaps it was only in his head. “He likes to smoke when it’s raining, I know he does.” A thought came to him, but it fluttered away and was lost in the crushing dark. He remembered nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Perian_ ("halfling") is the Sindarin term for a single hobbit, used by Elves and Elf-friends, such as the Gondorians.


	4. Three Bedridden Hobbits

**March 29.** The rain had slowed during the night, and as day came once more it stopped completely. Legolas had not slept at all, for Elves are not as mortal Men, and they may take their rest even as they walk under the waking sunlight. Instead he had listened to the sound of water trickling down the sides of the tent, tapping the taut canvas in gentle rhythm. The wind had passed, and the world had been filled only with a moist silence and that steady pitter-patter. For long hours Legolas had sat and contemplated it; dear Gimli would laugh, if he had known, and make some gruffly teasing remark. But Gimli slept and nursed his wounds, and so did every other man upon the Field of Cormallen that night, save Aragorn and Mithrandir only, and they were occupied enough with the Ring-bearer. So it was that when the news came, Legolas was the first of the Fellowship to hear it.

He went swiftly to Éomer’s expansive tent. It was covered with luxurious furs and decorated in the fashion of the Rohirrim, with galloping white horses on green cloth and complex interlocking rope-patterns, like the supple _hithlain_ of Lórien wound loosely about itself. A fire was crackling in the corner, and Merry was lying next to it, wrapped snugly in several blankets and snoring loudly. Legolas noted that his face seemed strangely flushed even in sleep, and his breathing hampered.

Éomer himself was sitting at a table surrounded by many maps and letters. His face was weary, and often he massaged his forehead, but as he saw Legolas he straightened and blinked. “It was my guess that the Elf would be the first to arrive,” he said, inclining his head. “I have heard tell that your people sleep in strange ways.”

“It is true,” said Legolas. “But I am well rested now. What of the hobbit here?”

Éomer looked down at Merry and smiled. “He rode out in the evening to Cair Andros during the height of the storm, and has only lately returned. I have let him sleep undisturbed for some time, but afterwards I thought to notify his companions. He and his Stybba have acted with courage. I did not know that the rain would come so soon, else I would not have commanded him to go, but the Lord Aragorn and I greatly needed the message from Iorlas, and we now have it.”

“Has he caught some sickness?” asked Legolas.

“The healers say it is not at all serious. He will snuffle a little for the next few days, and his nose will be quite stuffed, but he has done well in such dire straits.”

Just then Merry opened a very bloodshot eye. “Good - good morning, my lord,” he said, sneezing midway through. “And Legolas too. I must sound very silly to you f-f-fine folk.”

“Not at all,” Legolas told him. “But do not trouble yourself with us. Sleep!”

“That isn’t fair at all,” complained Merry, wiping his nose. “ _You_ don’t have to sleep at night. I heard what you said.”

“I think you heard something very much different, Master Meriadoc,” said Legolas innocently. “I have slept just as much as you. Is that not correct?”

“It is entirely correct,” replied Éomer in a very serious tone of voice. “Doubt not the words of the Elves, nor those of your liege-lord. You must regain your strength if you are to heal.”

Merry gave them a suspicious look but settled back and closed his eyes. Soon his snores were once again echoing throughout the tent. Éomer and Legolas shared an amused glance. “I will take my leave now, lord,” said Legolas, “but later I will come and see him, perhaps.” He left the tent and made his away across the field. The weak sunlight was beginning to filter through the clouds now, and the camp was stirring. Many around him cursed the deep layer of mud under their feet, but Legolas walked over it as easily as he had on the Redhorn Pass. Nothing disrupted his pace until with his keen ears he heard two familiar voices just off to his right.

“Please, Gimli? Just this once, that’s all I am asking. Please?”

“For a mischievous hobbit such as yourself, you are very diffident, I see.”

An offended huff reached Legolas’ ears. “Not true at all! But Éomer is a king, and since all that business with Denethor I’ve become terrified of talking to these important fellows by myself.”

“And just now you were telling me that you would do anything to go see Merry. I for one am doubting those words.”

“All you need to do is come with me! You already know him, it’ll be easy!”

Legolas came up behind them. “What’s all this?”

Pippin jumped. “Dear me, you elves sneak up quieter than even the most furry-footed hobbit.”

“Perhaps it was the fact that you were talking so loudly that a rampaging troll would have escaped your notice.”

“Indeed,” Gimli rumbled. “Pippin has spent a quarter hour bothering me about how he is too timid to speak to King Éomer and desperately wishes me to accompany him.”

“ _Timid_ is hardly the word,” said Pippin crossly. “But I would like someone to keep me company. If I go in alone, Éomer will most likely regale me with tales of Merry’s stalwart determination, and he will want me to talk about my own small deeds and everything I have been up to, and I am not at all in the mood.”

“You are of a very ingenious sort,” said Legolas diplomatically, “and have no need of our presence or advice. He who has endured war and shadow does not fear speech with a high lord - unless he is not as daring as is commonly supposed,” he added slyly.

Pippin’s cheeks reddened. “That is a much lower blow than I would expect from a wise old elf! But if you say so, I shall go on alone.” He struck a pose before the rising sun. “I don’t expect I shall return. Farewell, my friends.”

Gimli and Legolas watched him go. “Hobbits are strange creatures, to be sure,” Gimli observed. “I know his heart is dejected, but still his laughs are more than simple pretense.”

“I have seen so myself,” said Legolas. “Truly Pippin is saddened for Sam and Frodo, and for Merry as well, yet he soldiers on.”

“And now so must I,” Gimli declared. “Where is that stream? My thirst threatens to choke me.”

 

After sating their thirst, the comrades made their daily visit to the yellow tent. Mithrandir was there, his white robes swirling as they entered. “How is Merry?” he asked. “I would have come to see him, but it is my duty to oversee the two sleepers here while Aragorn attends to other matters.”

“He is well,” said Legolas. “A small bout of sickness, but it will pass. His body is strong. What of Frodo and Sam?”

“Not too bad, and not too good, as I have heard many a hobbit say. Sam, as you see for yourselves, is doing well. The soup and water have revived him somewhat, but his skin is cracked and peeling as it has been for some time, and there are scars on his body that will linger to the end of his days. He is resilient, though, and that will matter the most, for it is his hope that sustains him.”

“And Frodo?” said Gimli.

Mithrandir’s eyes were uneasy. “I do not know. On the outside he is nearly like to Sam. But his tongue is swollen, and most water we give him he retches up. His eyes and face seem to recede into his skull, and everywhere I see protruding bones. It is for him that my mind is most troubled.”

“Is there nothing we can do to speed his recovery?” asked Legolas.

“Nothing, except to water him every now and then. Even I have little knowledge here. Their fate lies in Aragorn’s hands; I am merely his assistant in these matters. He is a capable healer, of course. Save for Elrond there are few others who could do more.” He turned aside. “Well, you have not come to listen to a dotard’s mutterings. Go see to Merry. He will want to rise, but he should not do so till tomorrow. Entertaining him will no doubt make the hours speed by, and it will remove you from this unhappy place.”

“You are no dotard, but we will go nonetheless, since you wish it,” said Legolas. He and Gimli went back to Éomer’s tent, where they found Pippin and Merry. Merry had cast off some of the heavier coverlets but was still rolled up cosily by the fire. Pippin was telling him stories about Minas Tirith. Éomer had left for the time being, to give the young hobbits more space. It seemed Pippin’s fears of being trapped in an interrogation with the King were unfounded.

“…and then Denethor asked me if I could sing him a song!” Pippin was saying.

“Did he really?” Merry chortled, and then coughed. “But the only song _I’ve_ ever heard you sing was _Ho! Ho! Ho! To the bottle I go, to heal my heart and drown my -_ ”

“You shouldn’t be singing on a sore throat,” Pippin interrupted with mock sternness. “Anyway you’re right. It’s the one I know best, and I would much rather have fought a dragon with my bare hands than sing it in front of the old Steward. He didn’t ask me to, thankfully. Oh, hello there, Gimli, and Legolas. Would you like to hear a song?”

“No, but we were - ”

Pippin ignored Gimli’s hurried refusal and began a high-pitched and very noisy rendition of the timeworn tune. Merry refrained from joining in, but he watched with evident delight. Out of the corner of his eye Legolas saw several of the Rohirrim pause outside the royal tent and stare. “Enough, enough!” he cried, laughing. “You are dragging the Shire’s reputation into the mud!”

“Nonsense,” said Pippin, waving cheerily at the baffled onlookers. “Everyone at home would be delighted to hear it.”

“As I was saying,” Gimli said loudly, “we were sent here to make sure that you were resting and recuperating. Clearly this is not the case.”

“All right, all right,” said Merry. “Keep going, Pip.”

Pippin returned to his spot by Merry’s cast-off blankets and continued with his tale. Legolas listened but did not pay much attention; there were too many strange names and places for him to recall each one. Instead he thought of the yellow tent, and wondered how long it would be until its occupants found their way to the fireside as well.


	5. A Nightly Interlude

**March 30.** _Sam saw the Bag End garden, the same one that he had tended ever since he was a lad. At first it was as beautiful as ever, with newly planted flowers rising up in the damp soil around Bilbo’s favorite bench and tall trees budding near the back with grass swaying all about them. The hedges were trimmed neatly and the fence had been repainted. “It looks fine this morning, I reckon,” he said, allowing himself a moment of self-congratulation. “But it’s not what I’m searching for.” What was he searching for? He couldn’t remember._

_The big green door was ajar. Sam walked in and looked around. The floorboards were sparkling, the furniture dusted, the books arranged tidily. A battered doll, like one a lass might play with, was lying next to the fireplace. It was the only thing out of place. Sam tipped his head. Somewhere he heard the sound of childish laughter, and a voice telling a long story. The story seemed familiar, but it was just out of his hearing. Then the doll disappeared, and everything changed._

_Sam felt wind on his face. It was dark outside, and the clouds were black. Bag End was shrouded in shadows. The westward windows were shuttered, and filth was piled underneath. Mice scurried over his toes. Sam wrinkled his nose; the hole stank all of a sudden, and he wanted to leave. He followed the wind. It took him back outside, but the garden was gone. Shoddy huts covered every square inch; dead trees and oily puddles lay on the cold ground. He gasped and stumbled backward, knocking his head on the doorframe._

_Like ripples in a pool, his sight shifted again._

_A harsh cawing sound was in the air. Sam looked up and saw birds wheeling around. Seagulls? He had never seen them before, but somehow he knew what they were at first sight. The smell of salt was strong, and he heard the lapping of endless waves on the stony shore, and pages slowly turning. Pages of what? What was he searching for?_

_He heard his master speaking, but it was faint and he strained to hear the words. “I’ll be waiting, Sam, but don’t take too long. You haven’t finished the tale.”_

_After that came only a wall of nothingness._

_Frodo felt endless heat on his body. The filthy shirt he was wearing did nothing to block it out. He was walking through a white void, but when he looked down, his legs were unmoving. He halted and blinked slowly, feeling a cold pain in his shoulder. It spread to his back, and to his arm, and then he was shivering and cold. He felt for the chain around his neck, but it was not there._

_Soft voices and hands touched him. The white void became a rolling green expanse under a peaceful sunrise. It reminded him of…of…a dream he had had once, somewhere. For a while he stayed and looked upon it, but in his heart was a great desire to continue. He walked, until the green country and the sunrise had passed behind him, and he went on into lands of terrible gloom. His heart recoiled, but now he could not stop. A great spider reared up before him, its many legs thrashing in the murky air. Frodo spoke a word, a line, a sentence, and the spider was gone. He inhaled and exhaled slowly. Centuries, or seconds, passed as his thoughts wove themselves into a jumbled tapestry. A bright light shone on his face, and he saw a tall silver tree whose long leaves danced in the breeze. It looked familiar to him, but Bilbo had never taught him much about the forest. “Sam, have you seen this tree before?” he asked._

_The breeze blew off all the tree’s leaves, and it withered into ash. But the light grew stronger, and the heat came once more, and Frodo found that he was lying facedown in the white void. He felt a strange sense of calm pervading him. The sunrise would return soon, he knew._


	6. Tales of Pincup

**April 1.** Something cold and wet landed on Merry’s forehead, and he awoke suddenly. “M’lord?” he mumbled blearily. “Do you need something?”

“It’s me,” said Pippin’s voice not far away. “Éomer’s gone off somewhere with Strider. Now don’t talk, you’re sweating all over.”

Merry became aware that his entire body was covered in beads of sweat. “Pip, I’m…I’m so hot - ” He sneezed weakly.

“I’m afraid I can’t take off the blankets, otherwise you’d be cold. But in a minute you’ll be feeling better. You’ll see.”

The cold object, which was in fact a wet towel, slid all over Merry’s cheeks and body and then was lifted away. He felt a measure of strength returning and rubbed his eyes. Pippin’s face floated into view. “Good, you’re awake,” he said, and positioned himself in his usual spot.

“W-what’s the time?”

Pippin angled his chin towards the tent flap, which was open to let in the fresh air. The sun was shining. “An hour past noon, I believe. You missed at least three meals, which you’ve never done before. I expect you’ll be singing Yule carols and acting nice to your cousins any time now.”

“I’m too hoarse to do any of that,” complained Merry. “And I’m not hungry, either.”

“That is just what Gandalf told me you’d say,” said Pippin. “But you must eat. I’ve brought soup.”

Merry raised himself into a sitting position and began to spoon the broth into his mouth. It was slow work, and his hands were trembling. He saw Pippin watching him anxiously. “It’s not that bad,” he said, embarrassed. “I’ll be fine in a day or two, I’m sure.”

Pippin quickly hid his expression. “I know.” He looked at the floor, biting his lip. “But never mind about that. How is your arm?”

Merry lifted his right arm and shook it about. “A little better,” he said. “Really, there’s no need to fret.”

“If you finish that soup and stop talking, I might agree with you.”

 

After he drained the last chunky bits, Merry lay back down, feeling considerably warmer and more comfortable. “Have you got any more stories?” he asked drowsily.

“Well, I’ve finished near everything from Minas Tirith, but if you like I can tell you about that time in Pincup a while back.”

Six years, eight months, and three days ago, Merry had been on an extended summer visit to Tuckborough when Paladin Took and his young son had been called away to Pincup off by the Woody End on a mysterious emergency situation. When they returned, they were half-naked and covered in mud, and had lost a significant amount of toe-hair. Pippin had always refused to tell Merry what had happened, and the adults had deemed him too young to know the truth. “That would be just fine,” replied Merry with a note of glee.

“So as soon as Father and I left, we were set upon by traveling musicians carrying a load of brass buttons…” For the next hour Pippin talked about the star-crossed journey to Pincup while Merry floated in and out of sleep. Sometimes he wondered if Pippin was making it all up as he went along, but the tale made far too little sense for that. It seemed to be interwoven with his dreams, and occasionally Merry would open his eyes and wonder when he had closed them, since the sound of Pippin’s voice never seemed to fade.

“…and, wouldn’t you know it, the innkeeper set the poor fox on fire, and we got out just in time,” finished Pippin. “That’s all, as clear as I remember it.”

“Goodness,” said Merry. “But what happened to the Ranger?”

“Oh, he climbed a tree before Diamond chased the chickens off. Weren’t you paying attention?”

Merry folded his arms. “I’m a sick hobbit, you can’t expect me to hear every word.”

“If you say so,” said Pippin. “I’ll leave you to your rest, then, since you so obviously need it. And I’ve got duty, too. Wonderful.” He gave Merry a bright grin and departed. Without his presence the tent was silent, save for the occasional whooshing of the wind. Merry rolled over and stared at the colorful drapery hanging next to him, dark green with the white horse of Rohan running over it. He did not much want to sleep any more than he already had, but the stuffiness in his nose was rising into his mind, and he drifted off into slumber.

 

When he opened his eyes again, the stars were out. The fire had been lit while he slept and had dwindled to a few glowing embers. Éomer was lying on his bed in the opposite corner of the tent. He seemed to be sleeping, but Merry held still just to be sure. He felt clear-headed now, and his throat was less scratchy. By tomorrow or the day after he would surely be fit as a fiddle. Pippin was worrying over nothing. His friend acted cheerful, and maybe he was, but sometimes the concern in his face was plain to see. Perhaps that was mostly for the other wounded hobbits who lay not far from here; compared to Frodo and Sam, Merry’s problems were not much more than a piddling afterthought. He wished Frodo was here to tell him a story from the Elder Days, and longed for a taste of Sam’s first-rate sausages. There was a good chance that he would never get either of them ever again, and that was worse than any small misfortune that might fall on him.

He stared up at the low ceiling of the tent and thought back to Isengard, before war and death had descended upon him, when he and Pippin had sat under the ruined arch and smoked Saruman’s leaf while the sun shone on the valley. There they had met dear old Théoden for the first time, and later they had supped with their comrades, and told of their exploits under the eaves of Fangorn Forest. It had seemed then that soon good would triumph and Frodo would come strolling out the Black Gate as merrily as ever he had. Only one of those predictions came true.

 _That is quite enough soul-searching for one night_ , Merry told himself sternly, but sleep was not forthcoming. At last, thinking of nothing else, he wrapped himself in a blanket and stood up. After wobbling for a bit, he was able to tiptoe out without waking Éomer. Outside the air was clean and cool, and carried the scent of spring in its unseen arms. Merry looked up and saw more clearly now the wide belt of stars glimmering high above in the cloudless black sky. The moon was nearing full, and in its white glow he could see every damp blade of grass trembling under his feet. He stood for a while and breathed in the fragrance of Ithilien, but after some time he felt the nightly chill creeping under his skin and began to walk (or, more accurately, stagger dizzily) around the camp. It was an aimless wandering, or at first it seemed, but then Merry found himself standing in front of the yellow tent. Cautiously he peered inside. “Strider? Gandalf?” he whispered.

There was no response except the scarcely audible rattle in Sam’s throat. Merry paused at the tent’s opening and saw the moonlight welling past his shadow and onto their wan faces. He went inside and sat on the ground. The urge to speak came upon him.

“Hello, friends,” he said awkwardly. “I - I hope you’re doing well. I’m a little sick. I was caught out in the rain a few days ago when Stybba and I were going up a hill, and - ” Merry took a deep breath, and the sleepers took shallow ones “ - and I was thinking about you. You were climbing a hill too, only it was hot, not cold, and it was taller. But I can walk and talk. I can’t say the same for you.”

He barrelled on, stumbling over his words. A mist of tears covered his vision. “Do you remember Pincup? Pippin told me the whole story today. Maybe I’ll tell you too, after tea one of these days, when we’re sitting in your fine garden and smoking and talking about our adventures. Would you like that? You were just as curious about it as I was, both of you, even if you pretended like it didn’t matter. And, and I remember you were always worried too, always thinking Pippin and I would get ourselves into trouble, but we never listened when you warned us.” Merry dragged his sleeves over his eyes. “We did, though, didn’t we? We got into trouble, enough trouble to make our fathers lash us for a fortnight. But now it’s us who’s worried, and you’re the ones lying there not hearing a word I say. That’s not right, is it?”

There was a long pause. “I just want you to get better, and wake up, and go home with us. You’ve done so many things for me, and just do this, and - and that’s all I’ll ever ask, ever. Just, just this one time? Please, wake up. Someday.”

 

Back in Éomer’s tent, Merry fell quickly into sleep. He dreamed that Sam was telling him about flowers. “There’s dandelions, and we all know about those, I think, don’t we, Mr. Merry? But the Shire’s got a fair number of beautiful flowers besides weeds. Roses, for starters, and daisies and marigolds like my sisters, and petunias and tulips, and more besides. In all of Middle-earth there’s flowers I’ve seen on my travels that would put our little blossoms to shame, but somehow they’re not nearly as special to me. No matter where I go, my heart’s always back in the garden at home, and that’s more comfort than a king’s hearth, I’ll warrant. As long as you keep your head up, sir, you’ll find your way back there.”


	7. Very Much Worth It

**April 2.** Pippin rose late. His afternoon duty yesterday had gone on well into the evening, and he was quite sore. “Even Merry is already awake, most likely,” he muttered. “He’ll be near the stream, I suppose.” After breakfast, he went to his usual grassy spot and, sure enough, Merry was there. “Hullo!” he called.

Merry made no response. He was staring gloomily into the clear water. Pippin saw that his eyes were swollen and red-rimmed. At once he felt a surge of anxiety. “Are you all right?” he asked, sitting down next to him.

“I’m not sick,” replied Merry slowly. Pippin noticed that he had not quite answered the question. “But I still can’t smoke. It makes my throat hurt.”

“That’s a shame,” said Pippin, unsure what to say. Merry seemed unusually downcast. “Are you having bad dreams? Is that it?”

Merry gave him an annoyed glance. “I had a fine dream, thank you very much, and anyway I’m not the type to be bothered by nightmares.” He put his head in his hands and stared forward at nothing. “It’s just - I was thinking of Frodo and Sam last night,” he said at last. “What if they don’t get better? What if we have to go home on our own and - and let the S.-B.s keep Bag End, and let the Gaffer waste away all alone, and not say anything and live like that forever?”

“We’ve had this conversation before - ”

Merry cut him off. “I know what you’re going to say: cheer up and things will get better, or something, because that’s what you always say.” That was, in fact, exactly what Pippin had been going to say. He knew Merry inside and out, of course, but it went both ways.

“It works, though,” Pippin said, pushing on. “They wouldn’t want us to grieve, would they? They’d say, ‘You two have decades and decades ahead of you, so keep on with it. Even if your arm hurts sometimes. Life is very much worth it.’ It’s just as I said the other day, before you fell ill. We are here now, and so are they, and all we can do is hope.”

Merry said nothing, but Pippin saw him massaging his right arm with a grimace. “I think we have had far too many of these happy conversations in the past few days. Why don’t we go see them for ourselves? Strider can tell you everything you want to know.”

 

When they arrived at the yellow tent, Legolas and Gimli were there also, talking to Aragorn. “Good morning,” said Legolas as they entered. “I trust you are recovering speedily, Merry?”

“I am,” said Merry, not sounding particularly convinced by his own words. “But what about Frodo?”

Aragorn came towards them. “We will discover that ourselves soon. Merry, would you like to administer the water today?”

They began the daily ritual of feeding the sleeping hobbits. Sam was now able to swallow near any liquid put into his mouth, and his skin, when Pippin reached out and touched it, was regaining a measure of softness. His face did not appear as concave as it had only days before. Frodo was another story entirely. “How - how has he been?” stammered Pippin.

“Not well,” Aragorn said. “It is not often that we are able to give him nourishment. But stay your worries! Let us try once more, Merry.”

Merry kneeled over the bed as Aragorn opened Frodo’s slack jaw. “Come on, Frodo,” Pippin heard him murmur. A thin rivulet of water trickled from the bottle, twinkling as it caught the light streaming through the tent-flap. For a brief second it seemed to hang there frozen in mid-air, shining like a beacon of hope in the dimness of the unlit room. To Pippin’s eyes in that instant the falling droplets, small as they were, gleamed with the radiance of Galadriel’s phial that he had seen not long ago, and the captured light of the Silmaril of old that flew in fire over the heavens, even to dark lands where evil walked. Always in after years he would recall that bright shimmer and wonder if it had been his imagining, or something else entirely.

Then Pippin blinked, and the moment passed. The water disappeared into Frodo’s mouth, and as the watchers held their breath in desperate prayer, it stayed.

“He’s done it!” Pippin cried out. “That’s the most he’s gotten in ages!” He felt a thick hand grasping his wrist, and then before he knew it Gimli had swept him into a relieved hug. Legolas and Merry and Aragorn gathered around, and the five of them shared a snug embrace. “Frodo is closer to healing now, I think,” Aragorn said, and that simple statement seemed to lift years of care from his weary shoulders. “Both of them are. It will take a few days, but they will wake.”

Pippin looked over and caught a glimpse of Merry’s face. A torrent of emotion was welling in his eyes, joy and freedom and hope unlooked-for all rolled into one. “Merry, I think your throat can handle a bit of pipe-weed, wouldn’t you say?”

“You are quite right,” said Merry, laughing through his tears. “Let’s go, all of us. We can sit by the river and smoke, like I used to back home. Only this time it’ll be to celebrate. What do you say, fellows?”

“I shall go, of course,” proclaimed Pippin.

“And I as well,” said Gimli, drawing out the small wide-bottomed pipe that Pippin had lent him under the ruined arch of Isengard.

“And I,” added Aragorn. “Gandalf will be here shortly, and he will watch Frodo and Sam for the time being.”

They turned to look at Legolas, who had so far said nothing. The elf sighed. “Well, it would be wrong to leave all you strange smoke-blowers now. I shall go, but I will sit well apart and breathe the fresh air.”

Merry laughed again, and the pure sound lifted Pippin’s heart. “Then it is settled. Come on! The last one to the bank is a rotten beehive!”

Pippin protested, “Beehives don’t rot - ” but the others had already sped away, leaving clouds of dust in their wake.

 

The rest of the day went by in glory and happiness, and later Pippin was unable to remember anything that had happened, only vague images of sunshine on the Anduin far off and grass rippling in long green waves and silver smoke-rings dissipating in the cool wind, and many mirthful faces turned upwards to feel the warmth and the breeze stirred together until they became one. At times Pippin could almost see Frodo and Sam’s cheerful faces there alongside their own, lifting them back from dark worlds of despair to a brilliant red sunset. _Life is very much worth it, after all._


	8. The Long Road

**April 3.** Legolas was walking in Ithilien as he often did, watching the birds soar from one graceful branch to the next, inspecting tall trees whose shapes were unfamiliar to him. The land here was very different from Mirkwood, as the wood-men named it. The air was close there, and the ground black, and so it had been for years and years uncounted, though Legolas still recalled the dappled leaves and gentle valleys that had once been. He wondered if the Shadow had departed from his home as well, now that Dol Guldur was thrown down and the Dark Lord passed away. He wondered too which of his folk had died to see Greenwood the Great restored. Then he put aside those sad thoughts. The souls of his people would journey on to the West, and he would see them again one day. _The Sea calls us home._

“Legolas!” came a deep voice behind him, interrupting his reverie. “I thought I would find you here prancing about in the forest.” It was Gimli, naturally. “Tharkûn wants to see you in the tent.” He grabbed Legolas’ slender hand with his own brawny one and dragged him away before Legolas had the chance to speak a word. “Gimli - wait - what is happening?” Legolas gasped.

Mithrandir emerged from the yellow tent. “We are moving the hobbits under the trees, where they will rest easier apart from the stuffiness in here. Aragorn will be carrying Sam, but Gimli is much too short to lift a hobbit, and I too bent. An elf’s care will be required here, I deem.”

“For once,” said Gimli under his breath, and was subtly elbowed. “I would be more than happy to oblige,” replied Legolas, loudly enough to drown out the dwarf’s grunt. He entered the tent and found Frodo sleeping on his bed, looking far healthier than he had just days before. Gently Legolas picked up the frail hobbit in his arms, letting his thin legs dangle in the air. Frodo’s skin was pallid still and crisscrossed by many long scars, but it was no longer brittle to the touch, and that pleased Legolas more than anything else. He carried Frodo out of the tent and followed Aragorn to a beech-grove nearby whose new-budded leaves rustled and swayed in the breeze. Two low, soft mats were lying in their shade; Sam was already lying peacefully in one of them. Legolas laid Frodo down and put the covers over him, resting his maimed and bandaged hand on top. He stood back, looking at their calm sun-dappled faces. Struck by a sudden impulse he bent down and pushed back their curls, dark first, then sandy, and kissed each one on the forehead. “Sleep well,” he said quietly.

“Oh, yes, they’ll surely sleep well now they’ve been _kissed_ ,” snorted Gimli.

Legolas turned around swifter than sight and yanked his long and elegantly braided beard, eliciting an outraged yelp. “There’s an elf’s care for you,” he said, and promptly ran back into the trees, cackling in a most un-elvish manner, with a shouting dwarf on his heels.

 

Later he and Gimli sat and talked a while. It felt good to cast aside all worries and doubts. The War was over, and victory had been achieved. Now, the truth of that statement became real to Legolas, even if the battle at the Morannon had been many days ago. Before there had been the constant fear of losing the brave little hobbits as he had lost Mithrandir, of grappling with endless despair even as the world returned to serenity and happiness. But now that fear was passed, and the dark clouds were rolled back, and now he could sit with Gimli and talk of things to come. Yesterday had been a day of boundless exultation; today they could contemplate what lay ahead.

“One day,” Gimli declared, “I will return to the caves of Helm’s Deep with a host of my folk and we will make a mine to proud of. One that will live on in story and song, long after we are buried under stone.”

“Aglarond cannot truly be as fine as you have made it out to be,” said Legolas. “The Rohirrim have used those caverns only to store their goods in war.”

“They are Men,” said Gimli dismissively, “and though their hearts are good they are not craftsmen. You will see the true worth of these caves once we return, and then you will say that they glitter with a beauty unforeseen even in your father’s halls. But we dwarves will tend those shining gems and light lamps in darksome holes, and so make them glitter all the more.”

“And I look forward to the sight, dear Gimli,” said Legolas. “For myself I shall not be far away. My thought is to lead a gathering of such Elves that have not yet sailed the Sea to these fair woods as we sit within even now, and we shall live here in sight of the wide fields where hope was reborn, and rejoice to see the White City and the Golden Hall.”

Gimli gave him a long look. “Yet you have not spoken of the end.”

 _The end._ Legolas turned his face southward, and in his mind he heard the endless calling of the white gulls as they circled over the tall ships of Pelargir. He shook his head. “It will be long indeed before I follow that desire,” he said. “Middle-earth holds many that are dear to me, and I would see their lives fulfilled. There are places I have not seen, and lands that lie far from my knowledge. The Shire is one, and to leave without seeing that is surely a mistake.”

“Indeed,” Gimli grunted. “I passed through once as a lad traveling from the Blue Mountains to the Lonely, but I too would happily pay another visit. And, perhaps, obtain some Longbottom Leaf. For many years I have subsisted on Southern Star, and it is far inferior, I hear.”

“Such matters are beyond my comprehension,” said Legolas, smiling. He leaned back against the sturdy trunk of a beech-tree and gazed upward. There was no need to be melancholy now, or think of partings that lay far off in the future. His friends had traversed the long road to healing, and soon they would awake. And summer would come, and fall and winter and spring once more, and the days would be joyous like none that had ever been in all the days Legolas had known.


	9. When the King Comes Back

**April 4, 5, 6, 7.** The next four days were taken up by preparations for the grand feast and celebration. Gimli saw Legolas little, except when they were meeting with the other members of the Fellowship to discuss plans. For the most part, when he was not busy himself, he was free to wander about on his own. One morning as he sat among the beeches he saw a small bundle sitting next to the beds, neatly folded and nearly unnoticeable. Coming closer and unfolding it, Gimli saw that it was two sets of traveling clothes, made in hobbit-fashion with collars and suspenders and the other odd things common to their race, ashen and threadbare but cleaned as well as could be done. One, larger and coarser with bulky fabric and plain colors, was evidently Sam’s. The other Gimli remembered well, having noticed it many times on the journey south - it was finely made with brass buttons and bright hues (or bright they had once been), and perfectly suited for a slim, scholarly hobbit of means such as Frodo. Gimli supposed that Tharkûn was going to have the two wear these tattered garments when they appeared in front of the host of the West. A little strange it seemed, but he did not know what went on in the old wizard’s mind.

“Gimli? What’s that you’ve got there?” It was Merry, creeping up behind him with typical hobbit-like stealth. “Ah, right. Pippin and I saw those on the first day. They look much nicer now. Say, is Sam’s pack still here?”

Gimli looked around, but it had been taken away, by Tharkûn most likely, to be proudly unveiled when its owner called for it. “What was in it?”

“The Lady’s glass, for one thing, and Sam’s box. Also there was…er, some of that Elvish rope, I think, and a water-bottle, and some other things besides. I’d clean forgotten about it. Sickness and worry does that, I’m afraid.” He bobbed up and down on his furry toes, humming tunelessly.

“You seem remarkably jovial, and talkative as well,” observed Gimli. “May I ask what for?”

Merry gave him a wide grin. “Oh, nothing much. It’s just that Éomer personally asked me and Pip to serve at the high table. We’ll be in the sight of every one of those fine important fellows dining there, not to mention Frodo and Sam themselves. Quite nice, I think, especially since you and Legolas were unfortunately relegated to a side-table, despite being royalty by all accounts. It’s been a while since I trotted out the old white and green. I’ll be glad to see that big horse galloping on my chest again - that didn’t quite come out how I wanted it to, but no matter.”

Gimli’s head spun with the speed at which Merry’s mouth moved. “I see you can talk nearly as fast as little Pippin when you have a mind,” he said. “You will shock your friends into waking if that continues.”

“Ah, they’ve heard it before,” said Merry. “I always used to say that grown hobbits like the sort I wanted to be were far too responsible to prattle on to their elders. I wanted so badly to prove that I was grown, but it never quite worked, and everyone said that I’d grow up when the King returned - it’s a saying, you know, because no one ever thought the King would return. And he has returned, but I think growing can wait for a little bit. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“Yes, I would,” said Gimli vaguely, feeling rather light-headed.

 

Later he helped build the three great chairs out of turves, molding the peat with his strength and skill, and set the banners above them where they would fly free in the breeze. One for Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, a silver ship riding smooth dark waves; one for Aragorn, the King Elessar, a stately white tree starry-helmed upon a sable field; and lastly on the right side one for Éomer, King of the Mark, a white horse running on an endless ocean of grass. Some would have laughed to see such lofty seats built from the low earth, but to Gimli, master of stone and soil and all treasures that lay hidden beneath the ground, and to Imrahil and Aragorn and Éomer whose minds perceived much that others did not, they were the highest honor that could be bestowed. For the Ring had been destroyed by one whose stature and birth were low in the eyes of the wide world, and his people had changed the fate of Middle-earth even so.

 _I will be glad to see that horse gallop on Merry’s chest,_ Gimli thought. _It is everything he deserves._ Then he stood up, eased his back, and walked off. Evening was coming to the Field of Cormallen, and in a few short hours, the festivities would begin.

 

“They are beginning to stir,” said Aragorn as night fell once more. “By tomorrow they will be fit to rise.”

“Truly Hobbits have fortitude surpassing our measure,” said Legolas. “Even I would have taken many weeks to recover from such wounds. And you may repeat that to every dwarf in Erebor, Gimli.”

“I will,” Gimli vowed. “As well as every elf that so much as looks as me on the journey home. All the world must know of Legolas’ single admission of weakness. I doubt it will ever come again.” He and Legolas laughed together. Aragorn shook his head but smiled as well. “Frodo and Sam will be astonished when they find these two noble warriors jesting like children of five summers,” he said. “I have not yet become accustomed to it myself.”

 “All the better then! I would not have it said that Dwarves stand stern and unsmiling no matter the situation. We are lively folk and sing as many songs as the Elves, though ours are much more popular.”

“You have said quite enough,” cried Legolas, nudging him hard. “I will pull your beard again, if this slander continues!”

With a mighty roar Gimli leapt up and began to chase him around the clearing. The two sleeping hobbits nestled in their blankets surely took no notice of their laughter rising and mingling into the starry skies, but as dwarf and elf tumbled to the ground in a heap of limbs and leaves, Gimli thought they might hear it through the haze of weariness, and perhaps rejoice in their own small way.


	10. With Great Praise

**Epilogue - April 8.** “And then Merry fainted clean away right there in my arms,” said Pippin, “and I had to get Gandalf to drag him up to the healers!”

“I did not faint,” objected Merry crossly. “I was just, er, relaxing. You were imagining it, as usual.”

“A likely story,” retorted Pippin. “And then I came to visit him later after Strider called him back, and the very first thing he said was a complaint about how hungry he was. Quite a fellow, this Meriadoc. Knight of the Mark, indeed!”

Merry patted his leather vambrace proudly. “But my stuff looks much nicer than Pippin’s gloomy black uniform, doesn’t it, Sam?”

“I haven’t got any armor of my own, so there’s not much as I can say, begging your pardon.”

The four hobbits were reclining in a small green clearing nestled within the forest, recounting their adventures. Sam was lying on a cool patch of grass by a knotted tree-root, very much like the one he had uncomfortably slept on back in the Woody End, when their journey was just beginning. He was still amazed that he was alive to see it reach its end. “Here now, Mr. Frodo, what do you think?”

Frodo was on his back as well, with the white moonlight shining on his clean face. “They are both excellent,” he said, laughing. “For myself I am surprised that you can fit into those breastplates.”

“You’ve grown a fair bit,” said Sam. “A good three or four inches by my reckoning, though I can’t understand how that would be, seeing as you both have reached your coming of age, or are about to. Why, you must be taller than me and Mr. Frodo!”

He got up and stood back to back with Merry and Pippin, and then had Frodo do the same, and the younger hobbits towered over them. “Four foot two, I’d say, and it don’t seem that you’re finished yet. If this goes on you two will be riding the Men’s horses soon, and that’s a sure thing.”

“We’ll have old Bullroarer Took rolling in his grave in no time,” said Pippin, flopping back onto the sweet-smelling grass. He and Merry continued to argue over whose armor had the better look. Their clear voices receded into the mists, and Sam found himself gazing up at the great dome of the heavens that stretched above the little glade, a black circle dotted with stars, bordered by the graceful leaves of the trees surrounding him. He pointed upward. “Look, Mr. Frodo,” he said. “It’s the Star of Eärendil.” A single point of white light shone just above the branches, larger and brighter than any other. “D’you think he’s up there in his sky-ship with the Silmaril? Watching us here?”

“Perhaps he was watching us from the moment we left home,” replied Frodo, “but the clouds obscured his gaze.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Phial of Galadriel. Its glow waxed in his hand until it shone as if it were a star itself. “Now we may see him as well.”

Merry lifted his hand to shield his eyes. “Goodness, Frodo, that glass of yours is blinding,” he said. “Did you ever get to use it?”

Frodo and Sam shared a glance. “Yes, we did,” replied Frodo wistfully, “and it was a help in many needs, just as the Lady said. Wasn’t it, Sam?”

“It certainly was, sir,” said Sam. “Scared off that monster spider quick enough, I daresay.”

Pippin gave him an alarmed look. “Did I hear _monster spider_? Was that right? Because I am very much hoping that was not right.”

 

Later Gandalf and Legolas and Gimli came to join them under the whispering boughs, and they shared more stories of all that had happened after that dreadful day on the shores of the Anduin. But at last Frodo and Sam grew weary and were led back to their soft beds under the beech-trees, where they lay for a while as sleep crept ever nearer. The land was silent save for the rustling of the wind in the leaves. “Mr. Frodo?” said Sam quietly.

“What is it, Sam?”

“I can hardly believe we’re here, and Gandalf is here, and everyone else as well, and the War’s won. It seems like a dream that’s about to end, if you take my meaning.”

In the darkness he could see Frodo’s silhouette shifting under the covers. “I do, Sam, and sometimes I feel that way as well. But the Tale is finished, or nearly so, and it’s a happy-ending one after all.”

“Unless that Ted’s started digging up the Shire while we were away,” muttered Sam darkly, recalling his vision in the mirror. No one spoke for a few moments.

“I’m glad they’re here,” he continued haltingly at last. “The Fellowship, I mean, or what’s left of it after poor Boromir. I can’t think how hard it must have been to wait and worry about us lying here all bloody and blistered for days on end.”

“Then don’t think of it,” said Frodo consolingly. “They are none the worse for it, and neither are we.” He yawned. “Good night, Sam.”

“Good night, Mr. Frodo,” responded Sam automatically. His master’s breathing soon became slow and regular, but Sam still lay awake, absently rubbing a small scar on his cheek. The glad events of today were fresh in his mind - the feasts, the reunions, the endless bliss. _Praise them with great praise_ , the men had cried, and Sam blushed even now thinking of it. He was a servant, a plain-spoken gardener of humble means, and nothing he had done, in his eyes, was praiseworthy. “But I’ll warrant we hobbits are more than any of those Big People were looking for,” he said to no one in particular, and even as the last words left his mouth, he sighed and fell asleep.

 

 _The days that followed were golden, and Spring and Summer joined and made revel together in the fields of Gondor._ So it was written in the Red Book, and retold in later days when the Ring-bearer and the Great Years were no more than a far-off memory.

But the Glittering Caves were celebrated in Rohan and Erebor and beyond in distant lands,

and the Wood-elves of Eryn Lasgalen sang of Ithilien and the glory of the White City,

and the Thain, the Mayor, and the Master of Buckland were remembered from Hardbottle to Pincup and in many places besides,

and though these thirteen days may have seemed but little beside the great deeds that came before them, they were woven all the same into the Tale of the Ring, and told by a thousand firesides. 


End file.
